


Amaryllis

by Kangoo



Series: April Bouquet [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blood Loss, Face Reveal, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Slight Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23434519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Shin is wounded. Drifter helps... somewhat.
Relationships: The Drifter/Shin Malphur
Series: April Bouquet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685779
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Amaryllis

**Author's Note:**

> these bitches gay! good for them. good for them.
> 
> first prompt of the month! now, to write them all.
> 
> Theme: Shy

By this point they’d been meeting on the regular, the Renegade and him. Not often; not even by choice, most of the time. But there’s only so many places you can go when you’re chasing the Darkness and the people who’re drawn to it, and so the two of them bumped into each other a fair few times since that first meeting. They almost got comfortable.

Of course he doesn’t trust the Gunslinger farther than he can throw him and it’s obvious it’s a mutual feeling, but that’s par for the course. Men like them, with more names than allies, who keep their cards close to the chest and their enemies closer, are as prone to trust as they’re deserving of it. But still, there’s a level of confidence that comes with working together. A sort of familiarity they allow of each other. The Renegade lets him run his Gambit as long as the rewards of it outweighs the risks, and in exchange Drifter lets him point a gun at his head when the other man stumbles upon yet another thing Drifter hid from him.

It’s a good working relationship, if he does say so himself. Keeps them on their toes.

That’s part of why Drifter doesn’t even blink when he comes back from a Gambit match to find the Renegade standing in his place, standing military-straight as if touching anything might kill him on the spot. One doesn’t live as long as he has by being surprised easily, and he’s come to expect the man to appear without warning. Rule is that the less he’s heard of him lately, the more likely he is to turn up.

He’s staring at the bank of motes. Drifter follows his gaze to the dark energy that swirls restlessly inside and knocks soundlessly against the glass. It’s hard to tell what the Renegade sees in it. He’s so used to it he hardly finds it disturbing anymore. It makes for good mood lighting.

When he turns away from it, he finds the Renegade’s helmet turned his way. His posture hasn’t changed a bit apart from the slight tilt of his face but the weight of his attention is an almost tangible thing. Drifter throws him a grin.

“Fancy seein’ you there,” he says as he walks up to the man who follows his movements like a tiger waiting to pounce, perfectly still save for the smooth swivel of his helmet. Drifter settles opposite of him and leans against the railing. Finally, the Renegade seems to notice how tense he’s holding himself, and he gingerly imitates him. “Social call?”

The Renegade makes a sound that’s almost like a huff of laughter, distorted as it is by his vocoder, and goes to cross his arms casually. He stops halfway through the gesture and his entire body goes tense as a bowstring for a split second before he drops his arms again. One of his hands falls to his gun naturally. Drifter’s eyes jump to the dark stain on the front of his armor. There’s a faint smell of copper and ozone in the air. Guardian blood, then. Probably his own. When you face the Gunslinger, there’s rarely enough of a body left to bleed after.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“Right. You want me to take a look at that?” Drifter nods to his left shoulders. The leather there is still wet with blood. The source of it is hard to pinpoint, hidden under the folds of his cloak.

“It’s fine.” A shrug. It looks painful, but this time the Renegade doesn’t let it throw him off. “Ghost took care of it already.”

Not enough, apparently. It’s difficult for a Ghost, Drifter has learned, to heal a Guardian who’s not their own.

He sighs, takes a step forward. He’s already pushing the cloak away from the wound — it’s stuck to the blood. It’s one of their compromises, another give-and-take. The Renegade allows him that close, only with the caveat that Drifter will let himself be held back if he gets _too_ close.

“My Ghost will take care of it later.”

“You’re bleeding now though.” Drifter stares into the featureless visor of the helmet and holds his stare through it. He brushes the cloak fully off and rests his fingertips on the edge of the cut in the Renegade’s Armor, touch feather-light. “No skin off my back, and I owe you one from the last time you shot someone before they shot _me_ anyway.”

“I’m _fine_.” He straightens up and Drifter steps back to avoid bumping into him. Not that it helps: the Renegade wavers on his feet and falls back against the railing almost immediately, his hand lifting to his head and pressing against his helmet.

Drifter watches him for a moment until the other man catches his unimpressed stare. The Renegade flips him off.

“Fine, right?”

“Got hit in the head,” he hisses through his teeth. “It’s nothing, I just… need a second to breathe.”

Drifter lets him. Not for long though.

“Why did you come here?”

The Renegade looks up — slowly, and Drifter gets the feeling he’s one sudden movement from a migraine right now. He hesitates. Drifter presses lightly against the wound and drags a pained shiver out of him, a choked off sound too low to set off the vocoder. His shoulders drop. So does his hand, falling to the railing at his back to support his weight as he leans back.

“I didn’t expect you to be there,” he says, which explains little. “I just needed...”

“Somewhere to breathe?”

“Yeah.”

He’s never seen the guy so shaken up. Drifter’s pretty sure he got a concussion — and he exhausted his borrowed Ghost on a stab wound. Well, better that than him bleeding out in Drifter’s spot. Still it’s not something to ignore.

“Lemme check.” He’s already reaching for the Renegade’s neck, where the mechanisms keeping his helmet locked to his armor are.

Fingers close around his wrist, pry it away. The hold is weak enough that he could break out of it easily, but he doesn't. Give and take. A kind of trust, in its own way.

“ _Don’t_.”

“Pal, if you got a concussion, me seeing your face is the least of your problems.” The grips on his wrist slackens but doesn’t drop. His face is a sore subject. Guess it would have to be, with the whole secret identity thing he’s got going on. Drifter’s pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize it: after a few centuries you start to meet the same faces on different people. Names are more useful. “Unless you’re shy.”

He words it like a joke, but he’s known Guardians who slept in full armor and never let anyone but their Ghost see them without their _helmet_. He wouldn’t be surprised if this guy were among them.

The Renegade clicks his tongue but finally lets go. Drifter steps in his space once again. His breathing, from up close, sounds artificially deep, like he’s trying to keep himself from throwing up or panicking or both.

He’d stop him if he really didn’t want Drifter to see his face. He can be sure of that, at least. He’s not named the Gunslinger for nothing: he never shies away from shooting someone if he feels the need to.

Drifter pushes the hood back and presses lightly against the clasps of the helmet. There’s a hiss of pressurized air before it lets go, and the Renegade hangs his head as he pulls it off and drops it on the closest table, hoping it doesn’t fall in anything too messy. There’s a lot of Hive organic matter hanging around at the moment — he’s been trying stuff out, cooking wise.

Then, finally, he gets a good look at the Renegade’s face.

He looks… surprisingly young, and tired. Dark hair falls over his eyes and fails to cover the shadows under them, the exhausted thinness of his face. He has the face of a coyote, drawn and hungry. The face of something — someone — that’s been on the hunt for a very long time. He keeps his face neutral but he still looks sickly pale.

But his stare is just as piercing as it felt through the tinted visor of his helmet. Like he’s daring Drifter to say anything. It sharpens to a razor’s edge when Drifter’s hand settles lightly on his jaw, tilting his face this way and that to check his pupils, but he keeps his tongue.

“Might just be blood loss,” Drifter decides after a moment too long spent moving his head around. At this point he’s fucking with the guy. “So. You gonna let me take a look at that shoulder of yours, or should I send you on your way and let you pass out on my front step?”

“Keep going and I’ll start to think you want to get me naked, Drifter.”

He grins. “Depends. Got stabbed anywhere below the belt lately?”

It’s… strange, and entertaining, to see the way the Renegade’s face shifts for a split second at his words. He got too used to hiding his expressions with his helmet. Amateur.

Even more fun is the expression he settles on: a raised brow and the hint of a smirk as he replies, “Why don’t you check?”

**Author's Note:**

> come haunt me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/2Fast2Kangoo) or [tumblr](https://youngster-monster.tumblr.com/)


End file.
